Poetry by Christel Jeffs

Prose and Poetry

Jun 14

Waiting on rain

Faith is when you see

a static weather vane

hear the lolling tongues

gasp with thirst

and dusty shoes

crunch on paper grass

when your shattered eyes peer

at a blinding blue

and you still believe

that he will come.

I think of the blessings and burdens of my past.

By past I mean the lineage, the thread that binds me,

umbilical cord to belly,

the lifeblood coloured

by the crowd of witnesses

I call family.

I hold blank canvasses,

made empty by the curse of 'not good, not right'.

I run for miles of busy.

I reach high and fall hard because of gaps left in my heart.

And

I hold a book of mystery and love because of them.

I hold wriggling, squishy bodies to my chest, and it fills up a little more.

I have love, imperfect love, and it splashes on old canvas

along with new paints of knowledge and light.

I link hands with fellow artists and come to find that

beauty has burden

and burden

has beauty.